


A Mother's Gift

by Writer_at_the_Table



Category: Jewish Scripture & Legend, Sefer Shmot | Book of Exodus, תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Gen, Midrash, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Old Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29612169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_at_the_Table/pseuds/Writer_at_the_Table
Summary: There isn't much that Yocheved can give her youngest son. But she can give him this, at least.
Relationships: Yocheved & Moses
Kudos: 1
Collections: a lie strong and settled





	A Mother's Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a very old story - the oldest version on my hard-drive is dated 2011, though it may be older than that, even. I did make some minor edits before posting, but for the most part this piece is as it was 10 years ago.

The code of our humanity is faithful service to that unwritten commandment that says 'We shall give our children better than we ourselves received.'- Aaron Sorkin, "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II," _The West Wing_

***

Before dawn, when the desert is cold and the air is still, the mighty kingdom of Egypt sleeps. In the slaves' quarter of Cairo, a young woman stirs on her pallet. She moves slowly. Her muscles are sore, her eyelids heavy with fatigue. She dresses carefully in the dark. Her husband and children sleep on, oblivious. She must not wake them. She does not put on her sandals until she is outside.

Her youngest son, three months old and still so small, his baby-soft skin pale from being hidden away from the sun his whole short life, is nestled in a hand-woven basket pressed tight against her chest. His little whimpers and gurgles are loud in the silence of the predawn. She keeps his face against her breast to muffle the sounds.

She walks softly, barely allowing herself to breath. She fears someone will hear the rapid, booming drumbeat of her heart. She stiffens at every noise. The walk from the slaves' quarter to the bank of the Nile has never seemed so far. Her entire body trembles as she sneaks past the homes of wealthy Egyptians. Her body is sticky with sweat, though the chill of night still lingers in the air.

She ducks into the reeds and sinks to her knees in relief. She has finally made it. Her baby hiccups and her chest tightens with grief. Her throat closes on a sob as she kneels in the bulrushes, tracing her son's chubby, wide-eyed face with her fingertip. When she bends her head to kiss his forehead, her tears splash onto his cheeks.

She does not - can not - say goodbye. Her words are trapped in her throat with the sobs she knows she must not voice. She sets the basket on the river as gently as she can, and watches her youngest child, her little one, float away until he is just a spec on the horizon. Then she wipes the tears from her eyes and returns home to her family. She kisses her two sleeping children lightly on the forehead, straightens her daughter's blanket, and lies sleepless on her pallet beside her husband until dawn.

Years later, she will see her baby again. She will follow the man he will become as he leads their people out of bondage. She will watch the sea split beneath his staff, will walk with their people as he leads them through the desert toward the Promised Land.

But she does not know, that morning by the Nile as she watches him float away in a basket sealed with bitumen and pitch for now. So for now, she treasures the two children still with her, and comforts herself with the knowledge that she has given her youngest son what she has never had: a chance to be free.


End file.
